The Moriarty Motel
by SunbakedGeoduck
Summary: Stranded in the middle of nowhere in the middle of a storm, Sherlock and John check into a hotel for a change of clothes, a warm bed and a nice cup of tea. Too bad the hotel's being used as a meeting ground for the best psychopaths the country has to offer, organised by the one and only Consulting Criminal himself... let's get started. (rating will probably change later)
1. Chapter 1

"Please tell me you are not seriously suggesting we stay here."

John resists the urge to roll his eyes and he kills the engine, leaning back in his seat with a heavy sigh. In the seat next to him, Sherlock glowers up at the building looming over them, his brilliant obsidian green eyes narrowed into angry black slits. There's a fight brewing there, John can just tell, from the stubborn set of his jaw and the hot, almost luminous glow in his eyes, but John's in no mood. This day had been a total bust: Sherlock solved the case they'd driven hours for in about ten minutes flat, sending one man to prison and another on a detour through the hospital, and leaving them with no safe way back to their hotel in the middle of a very sudden and very violent thunderstorm. And, to top everything off, John's _brand new_ jumper is soaked through to the bone, to the extent where he can't actually tell where his skin ends and the soggy mustard yellow begins. _Brilliant. Just absolutely bloody **brilliant**_.

"Sherlock, do not even start with me right now, or I swear to God I'll put you in the trunk."

Sherlock peers at John sideways, his eyes flickering down to take in the pool of water wriggling merrily around in John's lap. The sound of the rain attacking the car is deafening. "This is about the jumper, isn't it?"

"This is only mostly about the jumper."

"Would it help if I said that the rain couldn't have possibly made it worse?"

"No it would not."

"And I suppose you are completely against the idea of driving us to our _actual _hotel?"

A crack of lightning rips through the sky then, briefly illuminating the whole world in streaks of neon blue and stark white before fading back to black. Sherlock doesn't move an inch, doesn't so much as bat an eye, even when thunder roars through the night so loudly that the entire car trembles. John gives him an exasperated look and he stares back at him calmly, clueless. It annoys John how perfect Sherlock's carefully unruly curls look even when completed soaked through.

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm completely against that idea."

"You _do _know that, in a lightning storm, _statistically_-"

"Screw statistics, I want tea."

Sherlock's face lights up, and he reaches down, yanking something with little effort out of the side of the passenger door. He holds up the thermos proudly, like it's the Holy Grail, and looks happily back at the doctor. He looks so proud, like a puppy wagging its tail, John almost feels bad about bringing him down.

Then he remember the contents of the thermos.

"_That_ unholy abomination," John gestures at it with a quick wave, watching it suspiciously. "Does not count as tea."

Sherlock frowns and glances down at the thermos, his frown deepening as he unscrews the lid and inhales deeply. He takes a quick sip and sloshes it around in his mouth, his frown twisting thoughtfully as he performs his examination; his expressions are so hilarious, by the time he swallows hard and licks his lips, John is having a hard time repressing the manic burst of laughter on his lips. He glances over at John, that frown so deeply embedded on his face it may as well have been carved there, and then he reaches into his mouth, extracting a tiny lump of grey-brown. The smile disappears pretty quickly from John's face after that.

"Now, I know I'm not good at the whole tea making thing, but grit is not normally an ingredient in a cup of tea, correct?"

"Little bit not good."

"Little bit?"

"Just a smidgen."

Sherlock glances down at the thermos again and his face curdles; he stabs a thumb at a button by the passenger window and throws the thermos out as soon as there's a gap big enough for it to fit through. It disappears into the howling darkness before John has time to voice his protest.

"_Sherlock!_" he squawks, lurching forwards to stop him, only to end up half in his lap, Sherlock looking down at him with a bewildered expression. John sighs and hangs his head against his chest for a brief second, straightening his neck again as soon as he registers how close to Sherlock's crotch he is. "That... was my thermos."

Sherlock whips his head around, a touching look of genuine horror on his face as he realises his mistake. He presses his palms against the window, letting out a defeated breath that covers a small portion of the glass in thick white mist. He turns back to look at John, still half sprawled over his right thigh, meeting his eyes for a brief moment before he rolls them, exhaling in a reluctant huff. "Come on, then," he almost growls and springs from the car, nearly sending John face first into the leather seat he just left behind. John catches himself at the last minute and watches him throw up the collar of his coat, his hair being pushed so violently aside by the wind that it's almost exclusively on one side of his head. He scowls at John, dancing a little on the spot. "_Would you hurry up?!_" he shouts, his voice almost snatched away completely by the screech of the wind. John blinks at him, confused. "Where am I hurrying to?!" he shouts back, straining his voice in the fight to be heard.

"_You're the one who wanted bloody tea_!" Sherlock bellows, beginning a slight half jog towards the dimly flickering red neon '_entrance_' sign hanging precariously above an aging wooden door. John allows himself a quick smirk before he leaps out of the car after him, almost forgetting to lock the car in his haste. It's so dark John can barely see an inch in front of him; he focuses on the only visible light, the blinking neon light, and he staggers over to it, holding his hands out in front of me like a blind man. Which is a smart move, because there are _so many cars_; he almost smashes straight into one, stopped only by the slightest brush of metal against his fingertips, and he walks straight into the bumper of another, the bulky back almost certainly a truck. Something pokes John right in the ribs and he hisses out a curse, physically having to restrain himself from giving the offending car a good kick. He pokes at the skin through his jumper and pain bubbles up, just a droplet. _If that's torn the fabric_, he thinks bitterly to himself as he stumbles over to Sherlock, _I am going to straight up murder someone_.

He finally reaches Sherlock, encountering only a few more awkwardly parked cars as he crosses the car park; when he ducks under the loose-hanging porch housing Sherlock from the rain, he glances back, frowning. _Strange for such an out of the way place to have so many guests..._

"Exactly what I was thinking," Sherlock mutters and, when John wrenches his gaze back to look at him, his eyes are dancing, flickering maniacally as he thinks. He looks troubled.

"What I-what?"

"All the cars; different makes, differing in upkeep, personal style, counties. Why so many for such a run down little place?"

"Maybe people trying to get out of the storm for a bit?" John suggests, hopefully. Sherlock's face is beginning to worry him: he know that look, all too well.

Sherlock gives a quiet 'hmmmmnn' in response, eyes brightening as yet another car pulls in; its headlights are blinding, like spotlights in their ferocity, and, for one brief moment, they roll onto the gravel to reveal John's thermos. His relief is short-lived, however, when the same car proceeds to roll over his thermos, crushing it as easily as an ant beneath a boot. John sags, mood instantly worsened. _My bloody thermos._

"Bastard," Sherlock comments, almost cheerfully; his eyes observe every move the car makes, watching the sole occupant of the car maneuver it impressively into a tight spot, his gaze as keen as a hawk's. From this distance, the only thing John can tell is that he's a heavyset man. And that he's a thermos-crushing bastard.

"Bastard," John agrees bitterly, and then turns to Sherlock. "You owe me a new thermos."

Sherlock's eyes fly open wider, genuinely confused. "Me?"

"Yes, _you_. Although feel free to not put tea in it. Or coffee. Or anything, actually, just the thermos'll be fine."

He pushes open the door, Sherlock's voice nearly drowned out by the dreadful protesting creak of the door. The smell of the place rushes out to greet them. _Like old furniture_. "I am _perfectly _capable of making a cup of tea, John."

"Depends on what you mean by tea, hello!" John says quickly, approaching the counter with what is hopefully a comforting grin. The entrance foyer isn't particularly large and it's very darkly lit: lamps are scattered around on various surfaces around the room, but only about half of them seem to be working and, of that half, only about two actually seem to be generating anything more than a weak glow. There are two small, dark red sofas sat on the immediate left of the front door, a small and well-worn coffee table placed in between it, covered in newspapers and ashtrays that have long since required emptying. The front desk is a surprisingly well-maintained wood that comes up to John's waist: the wood is a gleaming, lovingly polished beige, and a small silver bell sits cheerfully atop it, the sole piece of adornment there. John can't see much of the room that the counter is separating them from, but the woman who stands before them is plain enough to see. She's an older woman, potentially mid-sixties, with dark grey hair piled on top of her head in a neat bun; a pair of reading glasses are perched on the end of her small wide nose, and her eyes are a warm and homely looking brown. She looks like the most stereo-typically grandmother-like woman John has ever seen, and his worries about the place are instantly, slightly reassured.

"Hello there!" she beams at them, grinning so proudly you'd think they were her sons. John gives her his best smile back, and Sherlock, of course, regards with a distant smile, knowing her whole life story before she's even given them her name. John closes his eyes for a brief second, sending up a silent prayer in hopes that he doesn't say anything inappropriate enough for her to turn them away. Thankfully, he's remaining quiet. Suspiciously quiet.

John opens his eyes again and glowers accusingly up at him. Sherlock looks back and gives John a cheerful grin, smirking from ear to ear. John narrows his eyes at him. _Be good_.

His answering smile is even more mischievous than before.

"We were hoping," John says slowly, fixing a smile on his face as he turns back to the woman manning the desk. "That you had a spare room for the night?"

The woman looks at them with sympathy. "It is a dreadful storm, isn't it? Had about a dozen people come in for a bit, it's so bad on the roads."

"Oh good god, she's _talking to us_," Sherlock mumbles and John grins harder at the woman, giving him a hopefully subtle elbow. He snickers under his breath and John tries his hardest not to laugh. _Do not encourage him_. "Have you got anything at all?"

"Just let me have a look," she says pleasantly, pushing the glasses further up her nose and squinting at something out of John's eyesight. She glances back at them, awkwardly. "Will it just be the one bed you're after?"

"_Two_," John almost snaps at her, and she looks taken aback. "Two beds, we're not together."

He can almost hear Sherlock roll his eyes.

"Well," she says, her voice still uncertain, eyeing John with a newly wary look. "You can never be too sure these days." She brightens up a little bit, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. "We've got a pair of them staying in one of the other rooms, actually, _lovely _couple."

John sighs, trying to keep the smile on his face. _Every bloody time_.

"It does seem, though, that I only have rooms with a double bed left now, I can do you one of them if you like?" she looks back at them, observing Sherlock and John with an eerily creepy Sherlock-esque expression.

John looks up at Sherlock. He raises an eyebrow, wondering what the hold up is.

John sighs. "We'll take one of those, please." The woman beams and bustles off, chatting pleasant nonsense as she goes.

John swivels round to look up at Malcolm, trying to keep his expression serious. "You are keeping your pants on."

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, but the look on John's face stops him. He sighs heavily and scowls, twisting his lips into a patronising smirk. "_Fine_."

"Good."

"Great."

The woman waddles back over to them at the same time that the front door opens, that dreadful creak raising hairs on the back of John's neck. He grits his teeth and force the half-smile back onto his face, nodding politely as the woman badgers on, the key to their room dangling promisingly from her gnarled fingers. John glances at Sherlock's face for a brief second, and his gaze is keen, observing the newcomer. He looks alert. _Well, that's worrying_.

"Here you go, my lovely!" she sings, dropping the key into John's open palm and he grasps it tightly, almost moaning in relief. He gives her a quick smile and a thank you, and storms off in the direction she points them, grasping Sherlock's sleeve as they go. "There had better be a bloody kettle in our room."

0o0

_The Reaper watches them go, locking gazes with the taller one before the other dragged him almost unwillingly off, disappearing down a dark corridor. Strange. He hasn't seen them at one of these events before. The Reaper's mind dances over the detail of the taller man's face, the sharp cheekbones, the almost unnaturally piercing eyes. _Definitely would've remembered_, he thinks, walking forwards slowly to stare down the corridor after them. They've disappeared into the darkness completely, and the Reaper feels disappointed. _

_And then a thought strikes him. _

Maybe they're not here for the event.

_Oh._

Oh.

_Moriarty did say he'd got entertainment lined up for the evening._

_Well._

_Wouldn't that just be lovely?_


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock flounces into the room, and John can practically hear the kid behind him start sweating; he draws in a long, sharp breath and then becomes eerily silent, his attention completely and utterly focused on Sherlock. John could've taken off all his clothes and start singing the national anthem backwards, and he still wouldn't have taken his beady blue eyes off Sherlock's face. John feels sorry for the kid: every time Sherlock sniffs haughtily or his eyes narrow, eyeing the room with not-even-slightly-disguised distaste, the poor guy flinches like he's just been shot. John rolls his eyes and leans against the doorframe, keeping a disapproving scowl on his face whenever Sherlock glances his way. If anything, this only seems to egg him on; he turns his face away at the last minute, but John can just about see the mischievous grin on his face.

He performs the same inspection he did on the other rooms; leaping over chairs and yanking lamps off bedside tables; opening and slamming shut cupboards doors; running his hands over the bedsheets, the soft wrinkled white fabric smoothing out eagerly underneath his long white hands. After an eternity of this, the assistant beside John growing ever closer to exploding into a nervous breakdown, Sherlock spins around on the spot, his hands still tucked smartly behind his back. His expression is carefully blank. Only his eyes, dancing like joyous flickering flames of green, give anything away. "We'll take it," he says dismissively, with such an air of boredom that you'd think it had been the assistant who'd be dragging them insistently from room to room.

The kid gives a loud sigh of relief that almost sounds like a moan, and John fights the smile that threatens to cross his face; he could feel his lips twitching with the effort of keeping it suppressed.

Sherlock glances at the kid questioningly, dark eyebrows arched in a perfectly intimidating expression, and the kid starts rambling, practically falling at Sherlock's feet in his gratefulness. "If there's anything else we can do for y-" he manages to stutter out before Sherlock strides across the floor, shutting the door loudly in the younger man's face. He takes a step backwards from the door and turns to look at John, a smirk pushing at his lips.

"You're laughing."

"No, I am not."

"Yes, you are."

"I am really not, Sherlock, not even a little bit."

Sherlock doesn't respond for a moment, so John risks a glance out of the corner of his eye; he's still staring, the smirk getting wider and wider on his face until he's bearing his neat white teeth, and suddenly John can't help himself, the laughter exploding out of him so suddenly it even surprises himself. Sherlock joins in with me, his chuckle a rich and throaty dark laugh. "That poor kid has probably gone back to the front desk to have a heart attack,"John chastises Sherlock fondly, throwing his bag down on the floor at the foot of a plump, rich brown leather armchair, the type that looks so comfortable you would willingly surrender yourself to its warm embrace for hours on end. John eyes it wistfully.

"I rather expect he's gone back outside to smoke," Sherlock says bitterly; John throws a glance over his shoulder at him, a brief curious glance, and he scowls back, arms folded petulantly across his chest, thin lip pursed. "Don't tell me you couldn't smell it on him, it was glorious."

"Well, I think you screwed yourself out of him giving you a cigarette," John grins, pulling his damp jumper off with a little difficulty; the material clings desperately to his skin, finally releasing itself with a reluctant squelch, and he hangs it carefully over the bathroom door. "I think the next time he sees you, he is literally going to run for the hills," John adds, glancing quickly inside the dark bathroom, noting with an intense rush of pleasure that the shower at least seems to be fairly modern. The thought of a warm shower and a cup of tea warms John to the bone.

"I don't need him, I just need his cigarettes."

"Don't make me get the patches out."

Sherlock huffs, throwing himself backwards onto the double bed in a star shape, letting his hands run gently over the sheets again, almost like he's trying to make a snow angel, before he lets his eyes slide shut. John watches him from the doorway of the bathroom, bemused. He looks oddly at peace, for once. "So, I'm assuming this has the Holmes seal of approval? Because I have no intention of sleeping in the car tonight."

Sherlock snorts, keeping his eyes closed. "I'd hardly call it a 'seal of approval', it's simply the first inhabitable room we've been shown that wouldn't require both of us to doused in bleach immediately after use."

"But this one's fine?"

"Do you really think I'd be touching these sheets if it wasn't?"

John chuckles softly. Point taken.

"So… er… which one's your side?"

Sherlock cranks open an eye and stares at him with a frown. "My side?"

"Of the bed. Which is your side?"

He sits up straight in one fluid motion, like a vampire rising from a coffin, and blinks at John slowly, as if he'd suddenly started speaking fluent ancient Egyptian. "You mean, which side am I going to sleep on?"

"Yeah."

"Whichever side you're not going to sleep on."

"Do you not have a side of the bed?"

Sherlock stares at John with complete and utter incomprehension on his face. "Why would I need to choose a side of the bed to sleep on, I don't share the bed with anyone, the bed is entirely mine."

"Well, yes, but," John says, feeling more and more embarrassed by the minute. "Do you not have a side you prefer to sleep on?"

He blinks at John again, obsidian eyes narrowed in curiosity. "Do _you _have a side of the bed you prefer?"

For some unknown reason, this question makes John feel unspeakably awkward. He tries not to let the flush spread across his face as he considers this. "I, er, I usually prefer the left?"

Sherlock frowns. "You don't usually sleep on the left side, though."

"Well, not _all _the time, but-" John pauses as Sherlock's last sentence registers with him, his tone of voice: that wasn't a question, it was a _statement_. "Hang on, how do you know I don't _usually_ sleep on the left?"

Sherlock doesn't even look phased by his question, staring up at him with that cool look of curiosity on his face, like he's trying to make sense of John, trying to deduce him. "I've seen you asleep several times; occasionally, you'll turn over to your left side, but you roll over constantly, restlessly, like-"

"Hold on, you've _watched me sleep_?!" John hears his voice shoot through several octaves, failing to stop himself from sounding hysterical. Sherlock, as per usual, looks utterly perplexed by his reaction. "Several times," he answers, his eyes burning into John's fiercely. John can see the need in them, the need to understand why he's having the reaction he's having, but John's thoughts are too a whirl to register it properly. "How many times?!"

"Seven."

"Seven?!"

"One more than six, one less than-"

"_Why?!_"

"Well, the first time was to get a better assessment of you; people reveal a lot about themselves while they're asleep. The second time was after the incident with the taxi driver, to make sure the event was having an impact on your mental wellbeing. The _third _time was after the Black Lotus case, to see if _that _was having an effect on you. The fourth time was when whatsername stayed over and I thought you had been attacked-"

"Whatsername?"

"Skinny, blonde, green eyes, gambling problem, the early on-stage arthritis, the _hideous _taste in shoes-"

"You thought I was being attacked?"

"Attacked was my first guess. Demonic exorcism was my second."

"And sex was how far down the list?"

"I think it tailed in somewhere behind lycanthropy."

Despite himself, John smiles, shaking his head in exasperation as he does so; as soon as he takes in the grin, Sherlock perks up, tilting his head to the side and examining John from a different angle. "You're not upset with me?"

"Oh, I'm very upset with you, Sherlock."

"The smile sort of threw me off."

"This is my angry smile." John sighs and stares down at him, willing himself to be angrier, but finding absolutely no motivation whatsoever. John scowls at him and he beams back up at him. _Goddammit_. "No more watching me sleep, okay?" John tells him sternly, and his face drops. He pushes his lips into a petulant pout, so John frowns harder at him. "Fine," he spits, and John smiles. And then a thought occurs to him. "Did you learn anything?"

Sherlock looks up at me again. "What?"

"From watching me sleep. You said people reveal a lot in their sleep… did I?"

He narrows his gaze, playfully suspicious. "Are you saying you have something to hide, John?"

The flush in John's face comes back, more powerful than ever, betraying the automatic flustered 'no!' he spits out. The smirk on Sherlock's face grows wider. John's heart nearly stops. "What did I say?!" he asks, bewildered. _I had no idea I talked in my sleep_. "You worry," Sherlock says, his voice twisted with touching concern. "You worry about your sister, about Sarah, about Mrs Hudson… you've even mentioned my name a few times."

John frowns down at him, confused. "You don't think I'd worry about you? Sherlock, you're probably top of the list of people I have to worry about."

The look that crosses Sherlock's face then is nothing short of adorable; he looks genuinely bewildered, almost frightened. "You worry about me that much?"

"Well, you do have this really weird tendency to watch me sleep, so-"

"John."

John looks down at his feet for a second, that awkward feeling from earlier returning with a vengeance. Then he looks back up at Sherlock, a helpless smile crossing his face. "Sherlock, of course I worry about you. I worry about you all the time."

"But… why?"

John doesn't know whether he should laugh or cry for him. Is he that used to people not worrying about him? "Because you're my friend," he says simply, with a shrug of his shoulders. "That's what friends do, they worry about each other, they care about each other."

Sherlock glances away, but not before John has time to see the usual steely look in his eyes dissolve. John suddenly feels overwhelmingly rude, like he's intruded on a personal scene, and he awkwardly pats his shoulder, trying to make him feel better. _For the love of God, don't say 'there, there_'. Comforting people was not his forte.

John lears my throat, trying to brush away the sudden and intense moment that just happened. "Tea?"

"Oh god yes," Sherlock says, his voice hoarse, and he stands up so quickly he almost knocks John down.

"Dya reckon the front desk'll have any?"

Sherlock groans, springing back into his usual self. "_Must _we go and talk to that woman again?"

"I can go run down, see if they've got any, while you get the kettle on?"

Sherlock gives him a patronising smile. "I'm sure I can manage that."

"I don't know, I've tasted the tea you make," John grins, pulling a long sleeved, light blue jumper from out of his bag and throwing it on, staggering half-blind towards the door. "Back in a bit," John calls, shutting the door tightly behind him, pausing briefly to get his bearings. The corridors are long and poorly lit, the dim orange light giving the passage an eerie orange glow that makes John think unfortunately of horror films. He shivers unwillingly. _Get a grip_, he mutters to himself as he heads to the left. He glances over his shoulder once or twice as he walks. _Get a goddamn grip_.

0o0

Dolores Manning looked up and smiled as the door opened, the howl of the wind rushing eagerly. A tall, broad man stood in the doorway, his shoulders slightly hunched from the cold; he was mildly handsome, a short crop of dark blonde hair on his head, a smattering of even darker coloured hair lightly coating the lower half of his face. He was dressed almost exclusively in black, and he was holding the door open, his focus on somebody Dolores couldn't see, somebody still waiting outside. He glanced over at her once, a cold look in his eyes. Dolores smiled wider.

As she was about to call over a greeting to him, maybe get him to close the damn door, another man slid inside, ducking under the taller man's arm with an impressive elegance. As soon as he was inside, the taller man released his hold on the door, letting it slam shut, cutting off all the noise. It was unsettlingly quiet. Dolores kept the smile on her face and swallowed hard. It was an unnervingly noisy action.

The shorter man didn't make a move for a moment; his eyes locked on Dolores', a big grin spread across his face. He was as handsome as the first guy, even more so; he had thick dark hair, as black as oil, and eyes to match – his eyes were so dark they almost twinkled, like a starry night sky. He was considerably shorter than his well over six foot friend, dressed in an impeccably stylish and no doubt expensive dark navy suit, but it didn't diminish him at all. In fact, the taller guy seemed to be waiting on the newcomer, waiting for him to move further in. Dolores' grin ached. _Maybe they were together. _You never could be sure these days.

The smaller man moved forward then, slowly, striding with purpose. As he walked, he whistled, high pitched and musical, all the while keeping the smile on his face.

Dolores couldn't explain it for the life of her; but as he got closer, a pit curled up in her stomach, tightening and tightening until she felt like she was going to be sick. _Frightened. I'm __**frightened**_.

By the time James Moriarty reached the desk, the old woman's hands shook like a leaf.

He smiled even wider.

"Don't suppose there's another room available for us, is there, love?" His voice should have been pleasant to listen to, dancing with an Irish lilt. _Should _have been. "Always gotta be the last one to check in," he drawled, flashing her a white toothed grin. She thought of sharks.

"I… I, er… there are a _few _more rooms left, yes…" her voice trailed off, growing weaker and weaker by the second. Moriarty beamed again.

"Your finest one left, please, dear," he said, keeping his eyes on hers the entire time. Hers were swimming dangerously, filled to the brim with tears. His sparkled.

She stood frozen for a few moments as Moriarty looked around, examining the place with a distasteful eye. _Dear me. At least no-one'll mind if I get blood on the walls._ He glanced back at her, wary of her state of shock, and she flinched, jerked back into moving again. With shaky hands, she lifted the book in front of her, dropping it down with a dull thud in front of him. Dust fluttered out from underneath it, edging close to the front of Moriarty's suit. He watched it settle on the front of his jacket, tiny flakes of grey nestled snugly amongst the blue fibres.

He looked back up at Dolores, and her bottom lip trembled.

He kept his eyes on hers for as long as possible, drinking in the fear radiating off the woman like perfume, and then he looked down at the register, eyes scanning listlessly down the names scribbled there. He recognised some of them, hidden inconspicuously amongst the names of the ordinary, the ones who'd come running from out of the thunderstorm to hide with the monsters in the dark. _What delicious possibilities_. He ran a finger almost lovingly down the list, an almost fond smile on his face. _The gang's all here. Even got the Heartbreaker here to do the catering_, he giggled to himself, noting the cannibal's name with glee. He thought fondly back to the previous year, when they'd come to him to organise last year's event. _What a lovely weekend. I should really visit that spa again. I wonder if they did manage to get all that blood out of the mud baths_.

His fingers danced over the names again listlessly. _Michael Phillips, Trevor Franklin, Matilda Humphries, John Wat-_

Oh.

_Oh._

_Could it be?_

Moriarty's head shot up, his eyes dancing. Dolores flinched. _There is not a drop of sanity in those eyes_.

Moriarty circled John Watson's name with his index finger, caressing it. A helpless smile crossed his face and he unconsciously licked his lips. "John - Watson," he said, smiling even wider as he said the name, tasted it on his tongue. His blood buzzed with excitement. "What did he look like?"

Dolores blinked. "Wh-what?"

Moriarty sighed. "_John Watson_," he spoke slowly and loudly, making the woman flinch. "_What – did he – look like_?"

Tears rolled down the old woman's face. Moriarty resisted the urge to shoot her. "He… he was, er… er, short? Blonde hair? He, he was here with a friend-"

"A _friend_?" Moriarty snarled then, letting the mad grin cross his face. _Oh… oh, a __**friend**__, oh, oh, oh_. "What kind of friend?" he asked, almost pleasantly. The change in mood was jarring; the old woman looked startled again.

"He was tall… skinny – thing, curly dark hair… green ey-"

"Sebby, dear."

That was all it took. Moriarty didn't even hear her body fall to the floor.

_Ohhhhh… oh, oh, oh._

"Don't ever say I don't know how to plan a good party," Moriarty smirked.


End file.
